


Duck of Mystery

by ant5b



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: AU Gosalyn origin, Hurt/Comfort, References to Batman comics, inspiration from original DW series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: No one cares about poor, orphaned Gosalyn Waddlemeyer, so why should he?





	Duck of Mystery

 

It’s late enough to be considered early, with the inklings of dawn only a handful of minutes away. 

Launchpad left about an hour ago, to get some rest before he flew Mr. McDuck to a dig site in Birdbados. They’re still trying to find a balance between his job as chauffeur and pilot (though increasingly  _ just  _ chauffeur) to the Richest Duck in the World and their nights spent crime-fighting. As a result, Drake often finds himself venturing out alone. 

But this has been a good week. Launchpad was able to join him on his patrols of both Duckburg and St. Canard nearly every night, flying in the  _ Thunderquack  _ he built from scratch that still makes Drake want to hop up and down like a child whenever he so much as thinks about it. And just earlier tonight, Launchpad had asked in that quiet, fumbling way of his when he was genuinely nervous about something, if Drake wanted to move in with him. 

“Not-not in Mr. McDee’s garage,” he’d hastened to explain. “I’ve been doing some thinking you know, and I thought it was time I found my own place in town — with-with you, if that’s what you want, but y’know, no pressure, but I really like you and I’d like _ — _ I’d love to live with you _ — _ ”

Drake couldn’t help but laugh, reaching up to snag Launchpad’s wildly gesticulating hands and cradle them in his lap. “I like you too,” he’d said, hoping to convey the measure of his affection by the warmth in his voice. “And I’d love to live with you.”

That had been some hours ago, and Drake’s barely coming down from cloud nine. He and Launchpad crossed over to St. Canard sometime around one in the morning, and stopped a couple muggings and attempted break-ins in between discussing possible living options. Duckburg’s still in the midst of a housing shortage, and Drake isn’t sure how he feels about moving back to his hometown of St. Canard. However, considering he’s been crashing at his hideout more than his actual apartment, he doesn’t really have the right to be picky. 

It’s been quiet since Launchpad left, nobody out on the street below and nothing on the police scanner. Drake supposes that even St. Canard’s criminal underbelly has to sleep sometime. Not him, though, at least not until the sun’s up.

Drake’s taken to sitting on the roof of apartment buildings when his patrols are winding down, and tonight is no exception. He’s finishing up his burger from the 24-hour Hamburger Hippo just down the street, the one with the staff so regularly exposed to the depravities of humanity that they don’t even blink when a duck in a mask and a cape comes in to order a combo meal. 

He’s still scanning the street as eats, and that’s when he sees her. 

A blip of red in an ocean of night, and Drake has to do a doubletake to make sure his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. Sure enough, there’s a small figure, a kid, walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. He only catches a glimpse of her red hair when her hood falls, just as she steps into a circle of light provided by one of the few working street lamps. 

Even as she tugs her the hood of her jacket back up around her face, Drake can tell she’s young. As in, way too young to be wandering around the Tenderloin at any time of day, much less the dead of night. Her watches her pause and look up and down the street, before crossing over to the sidewalk beneath him. 

She has on a large backpack that nearly dwarfs her, and she adjusts the straps with obvious discomfort. It doesn’t stop her from peering at the parked cars she passes, with a veneer of nonchalance that he doesn’t understand the reason for. She pauses at the mouth of the alley beside the apartment building he’s perched on, and quickly scans her surroundings again. The street continues to remain empty, and she enters not a moment later. 

Curious and more than a little concerned, Drake rises from the roof edge facing the street, leaving his half-eaten burger behind. He walks over to the ledge overlooking the alley, peering down, and his dark-adjusted eyes find the girl quickly. 

She’s nearing the end of the alley, her gait purposeful. She keeps sneaking glances over her shoulder as she tugs her backpack around to sit on her chest, and begins to pull open the zipper. Whatever she’s heading toward, it’s apparently in this dead end alley. 

Realization strikes with all the delicacy of an piano falling on his head, and Drake resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Oh, horsefeathers,” he mutters, in absolute disbelief. 

He left the Ratcatcher parked in the alley below. 

The girl’s pulling a lug wrench out of her big backpack, and Drake stops wondering why she’s carrying around something so big. She crouches beside the Ratcatcher, putting her backpack down on the ground beside her, and gets to work on stealing his tires. 

She goes about it clumsily, because motorcycle tires and car tires are have little in common despite being used for the same purpose. But she clearly has experience with this, obvious in the confident way she holds the wrench and angles her body. If Drake doesn’t do something soon she’ll probably be successful. 

With an ease born from practice, Drake hops off the edge of the building. He lands soundlessly on the second to last fire escape, and finds himself immediately at a loss. He can see the girl a lot more clearly now, and he has a sinking feeling developing in the pit of his stomach. 

She’s shaking as she tries to undo the bolts on the Ratcatcher’s tires, and he watches her nearly drop the lug wrench twice. It’s the reason she’d looked clumsy from above, Drake realizes. He fights the sympathy that wells up in him at the sight. She’s still trying to steal his tires, and he kind of needs those to get home. Or anywhere, really. 

Drake jumps down the dozen feet that remain between him and the ground, landing behind the girl. She doesn’t hear him, judging by the small curse she mutters when she drops the lug wrench with a clatter. He approaches her silently, at war with himself. As Darkwing, criminals he can handle, arrogant cops, even the odd grateful citizen. But a wannabe delinquent, a kid, alone in a dangerous part of town? What can he say that won’t immediately send her into a panic? 

As ever, Drake’s mouth moves before his brain can catch up with him. 

_ “Ahem,”  _ he says, like the tactless buffoon he is. 

The girl gasps, reacting instantly. In one quick motion she jerks to her feet and swings the lug wrench around, very nearly cracking Drake’s beak. She pulls her arm back in preparation of another  backhand before he finally regains his senses. 

“Hey, hey, whoa, you’re okay!” he tells her, raising his hands in what he hopes she’ll take for the non threatening gesture it is. “I’m not gonna hurt you!”

Her hood’s fallen back, revealing red hair tied in low, messy pigtails, and wide, panicked green eyes in a gaunt face that’s mostly brown, but still slightly yellow with down feathers. Her hands are wrapped tight around the wrench, so much so that her knuckles stand out. Up close, her oversized green hoodie is dingy in a way that speaks to poverty. 

Drake’s pity gives way to anger at the injustice he sees before him. If he had any doubts as to why this kid was trying to steal his tires, he doesn’t now. 

The girl’s panic-blind stare abates slightly as her brow begins to furrow. 

“D...Darkwing Duck?” she breathes. 

Any other time, Drake would be overjoyed at being recognized. But now his stomach just churns. “That’s right,” he replies. He gives her a pointed look, tempered with a smile. “You do realize whose tires you were stealing. Right?”

_ “Duh,” _ she retorts, clearly trying for a sardonic sort of tone but her voice trembles too much to sell the act. “You  _ do  _ you realize you parked your awesome motorcycle in a dark, spooky alley.  _ Right _ ?”

Drake chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s relieved to see the girl lower the wrench, no longer quite as on the defensive. “I guess you got me there.”

The girl smiles, quick as you please, and Drake doesn’t buy it for a second. “Well, great to meet you, Darkwing, big fan, but I should get going,” she says at a rapid pace. At the same time, she moves to pick up her backpack and slip the lug wrench back inside.

“Thank you for not arresting me, that was really cool of you, ‘cause technically I didn’t even do anything wrong and I don’t think you want people to think of you as the superhero who throws people in jail for not doing anything wrong. I mean, I bet  _ Gizmoduck  _ would never do that!”

She pulls her backpack on while talking, staggering briefly under the weight. She takes two steps forward, clearly intent on breezing past him and him just allowing her to do so. 

“I don’t think so,” Drake says dryly, stepping in front of her and crossing his arms over his chest. 

The girl immediately looks wary, her pasted on smile sliding off her face. She tightens her grip around the straps of her backpack, like she’ll make a run for it the second Drake makes a wrong move. 

If he bombards her with the questions he’s desperate to ask —why is she out here alone? Where are her parents? Does she have somewhere to live? _ — _ she’ll shut him out. She might feel cornered, and try to attack him again, this time for real. Either way, she won’t let Drake help her if he takes the direct route. 

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” he says conversationally, purposely relaxing his stance. He sticks out his hand. “I’m Drake.”

The girl seems to forget to be suspicious, judging by her startled expression. After a moment’s hesitation, she reaches out to take his hand. Her hand is dwarfed by his own, her knuckles scabbed over and her fingers still sticky with grease from the Ratcatcher’s tires. 

“Gosalyn,” she replies, and looks surprised at herself for doing so. 

“Great to meet you, Gosalyn,” Drake says. “You hungry? I know a great little place just down the street.”

 

“I can’t believe no one said anything about  _ Darkwing Duck  _ walking into their restaurant!” Gosalyn declares, impassioned, as she waves her milkshake around in the air. “Like, do they live under a rock?”

“I don’t know,” Drake replies nonchalantly, “I stop by there so often, they probably can’t bother being surprised anymore.”

“Still,” Gosalyn mutters, on the verge of pouting, and reaches over to take another handful of Drake’s fries. 

They’re sitting on the rooftop Drake had vacated little over an hour ago, but feels like so much longer now. The sky is gradually lightening from black to blue with the coming dawn, and a stripe of orange has begun to crest the rooftops. 

They started out with a Hamburger Hippo takeout bag each, but after watching Gosalyn practically inhale her burger, Drake gave her his too and settled for french fries instead. Of course, Gosalyn would go on to steal the fries from him too, but he can hardly bring himself to care. The promise and delivery of food seems to have endeared him to her, judging by the more natural, snarky humor she seems to fall into. She’s more relaxed around him now, and he’s grateful, because he’s only gotten more worried about her. 

“Speaking of which,” Drake says, after taking a sip of his soda, “how did  _ you  _ recognize me? I only recently started patrolling in St. Canard. I didn’t think too many people here knew me yet.”

Gosalyn looks down, playing with the straw of her milkshake and avoiding his eyes. “Oh, uh...y’know,” she hedges, and Drake doesn’t rush her. She glances back at him for a fleeting moment, something about the hesitant hope in her gaze reminding him of himself before he met Jim Starling, in the short-lived moments before his hero spat his admiration back in his face. 

“Well,” Gosalyn starts to say, setting her drink down so she can reach for her backpack behind her. “I, um. Well.” Words seem to fail her, and she’s pink with embarrassment, but she pulls a blue binder out of her backpack all the same. 

“I’ve kinda sorta known who you were since you first started,” she says quietly, and she’s not looking at Drake as she opens the binder and maybe that’s a good thing because his beak falls open in astonishment. The binder is filled with clear plastic sleeves filled with carefully cut newspaper clippings of his exploits, starting with the first one that made headlines: his defeat of the escaped convict and crime boss, Taurus Bulba. 

“This is...wow,” Drake breathes. 

Gosalyn is watching him now, waiting for his reaction with wariness mitigating her expression. 

Drake reaches for the binder. “May I?” he asks, already overwhelmed by the child’s admiration in him. 

Her expression alights with joy, which she immediately tries to hide behind a careless shrug. “Sure,” Gosalyn says, but her apparent lack of concern is belied by how gingerly she hands the binder to him. 

Drake immediately starts flipping through it, alternatively smiling or groaning when he sees a positive headline versus ones mocking him for his blunders. He finds the picture that the news keeps circulating whenever he and Gizmoduck work together, the one where the other hero used his wrong arm to wave and ended up blocking Drake’s entire face. 

“Hey!” Drake says brightly, turning the binder so Gosalyn can see where he’s pointing. “You even have ones that mention my partner! So many of these call him him my sidekick, and it may not bother him but it certainly bugs me.”

Gosalyn rolls her eyes, but she looks pleased. “I know, right? He looks super cool in all the pictures I’ve seen of him, but nobody talks about him! I had to steal Mrs. Cavanaugh’s newspapers for almost three weeks to find a good article.”

It’s the first time Gosalyn’s mentioned anyone in her life by name, and she knows it too by how quickly she goes quiet. Drake sobers as well, but he doesn’t press, and he doesn’t move the binder from his lap. He can only hope that Gosalyn feels safe enough to tell him the truth of who she is. 

She tugs her legs up to her chest, and wraps her arms around her knees. She looks very small, and something in Drake’s chest aches at the sight. 

“Mrs. Cavanaugh’s the lady that runs the orphanage where I...lived,” Gosalyn mutters. 

“When did you stop living there?” 

She shrugs, laying her chin down on her knees. “Two weeks ago.”

Drake grimaces. It’s not far from what he expected, but that doesn’t mean it’s good. “Why did you leave?” 

She shrugs again, a smile developing on her face that is anything but happy. “Oh, y’know, I figured I could use a change of scenery.”

“Gosalyn,” Drake starts to say. 

“Nobody wanted me,” Gosalyn cuts him off, and he shuts his beak with a harsh clack. “Okay?” she snaps, “why does anyone run away from an orphanage? Nobody wanted to adopt me.”

Drake resists the urge to reach out to her, unsure of how his attempt at comfort would be received. “I’m sure these things take time,” he tries. 

Gosalyn snorts. “Everyone I knew when I first got the orphanage has already been adopted. I’m one of the oldest kids there.” Her eyes are shining with tears when she looks down at her feet, and she roughly scrubs at her eyes. “They say I’m a problem child. Prospective parents and the people who work at the there. So I figured I’d leave, and stop being their problem.”

“Gosalyn —”

“There was only time it wasn’t so bad, being there,” she says, reaching for her binder. Drake hands it to her, his mind churning with concern so strong he almost doesn’t hear her. Gosalyn flips back to the first page, with the news clipping of when he initially made headlines. 

“Taurus Bulba killed my grandpa,” she says, and Drake’s heart damn near stops in his chest. “He was a scientist. I was still awake, sometimes, when Bulba came to the lab in the middle of the night to talk to him. Everyone said he died ‘cause of a heart attack, but I always knew what really happened. But Bulba was in jail then, so y’know, whatever, even if he wasn’t in there for killing my grandpa he still did a lot of other really bad stuff.”

She starts crying anew, and she furiously rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm. “But then he got out, and I was so mad, I—he killed Grandpa, and he was just  _ free _ , flying around in the stupid spaceship shaped like his head. But-but then,” Gosalyn looks up at him, eyes red with tears and shining with an awe and wonder that Drake knows he doesn’t deserve. “Then you stopped him. No one else could do it, but you did.” She shrugs, smiling sadly. “You helped me without even realizing it. How could I not recognize you?”

Drake’s own eyes are burning with unshed tears, but he blinks them back. He carefully picks up Gosalyn’s binder and sets it on the rooftop behind them. Then he slowly, gently, draws Gosalyn into his arms, giving her ample time to pull away. But she lets out a half-stifled sob and buries her face in his chest, gripping the back of his uniform and cape in trembling fists. 

He rubs her back as she shakes from the force of her grief, remaining quiet as the sky continues to lighten behind them. 

“Hey,” he murmurs after a moment, “Hey. You’re okay.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Gosalyn mutters, startling a small laugh out of him. 

“I know it doesn’t.” Drake leans back, gently clasping Gosalyn’s arms. She looks at him, her eyes red and puffy. “I’m sorry about what happened to your grandpa.” 

Gosalyn sniffles, wiping her cheeks. “Thanks. Sorry for getting snot on your costume.”

Drake chuckles. “I’ll send you my dry cleaning bill.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and he laughs again. He lowers his arms, ending their embrace, but Gosalyn still remains close. 

“I’m honored that I could help you, Gosalyn, even in some small way,” he says, looking back at her binder. “I’d like to help you again, if you’ll let me.”

“You want to take me back to the orphanage,” she deadpans. 

Drake offers a sympathetic smile. “The whole teenage runaway thing isn’t working out to well for you, kiddo. You’re too young to live on your own, and I think you know that.”

Gosalyn scowls, but she doesn’t argue. She remembers as well as he does how ravenously she’d torn into an otherwise mediocre meal, and Drake almost doesn’t want to consider how long it’s been since she last ate. 

“But wait,” she says suddenly, looking unaccountably panicked. “Will I ever see you again?”

Drake blinks, taken aback by her vehemence. “Of course I’ll visit,” he replies, and at that moment realizes that it’s the truth. He doesn’t want this to be the last time they see each other either. “I’ve gotta make sure you haven’t made another run for it, don’t I?” 

He ruffles her messy hair, and she ducks out from under his hand with a grumble. But she’s smiling, brighter than he’s ever seen, and the rising dawn pales in comparison. 

 

Darkwing takes Gosalyn back to the orphanage on the  _ Ratcatcher _ , which is as awesome as she always pictured it would be despite Darkwing driving at the speed limit, which he never does on the news. He doesn’t have a helmet that fits her, but he tightens the strap under her chin as best he can and has her sit in front of him. It’s the safest she’s felt since her grandpa died. 

But of course that comes to and end when they get to the orphanage. Someone alerts Mrs. Cavanaugh to the vigilante sitting outside with their missing kid, and everything immediately erupts into chaos. Gosalyn is hustled into another room, the police are called, and through it all Darkwing stays. She only catches brief glimpses of him in between both of them talking to the orphanage staff and the police, and he doesn’t look mad, or even annoyed by the constant barrage of questions. 

She knows that he’s a superhero, and plenty of the articles she’s collected talk about how adept he is at disappearing into thin air whenever he so chooses. The fact that he stays is significant. She knows it is. 

The sun is nearly setting anew by the time they let her go, and all she wants to do is crawl into her creaky bed and forget the last two weeks ever happened. But Darkwing stops to say goodbye, looking so incongruous in his dark costume against the pale walls of the hallway,  smiling and standing tall like something from a dream. 

Gosalyn’s throat closes up at the sight of him, because seeing him at all is still almost too good to be true. She wraps her arms around his waist and almost expects him to push her away. Instead, he wraps his arms around her shoulders. 

“You’ll visit right?” she asks, and doesn’t care about how pathetic she sounds. 

Darkwing squeezes her shoulders. “As soon as you’re off house arrest, kiddo. That’s a promise.”

He sweeps out the window in a pink and purple arc, and Gosalyn runs over to the window sill just in time to see him roar away on the Ratcatcher. But hope continue to war with dread in her gut, because when did she last get what she wanted? 

Mrs. Cavanaugh grounds her for the next month. She isn’t allowed any visitors (there’s only one she cares about now, anyway) and one of the orphanage staff has to walks her to and from school, and nowhere else. She isn’t allowed to play hockey or pull any of her usual pranks or watch any television.  

Gosalyn doesn’t complain (well, give her a little credit, she only complains a  _ little _ ) because she  _ did  _ run out on them without warning for two weeks and she feels kind of bad about that. But also because some stupid, ridiculous part of her wants to prove to Darkwing that she can be a good kid. That being a bad runaway and stealing tires isn’t all she is. 

The month ends faster then she expected, and Mrs. Cavanaugh lets her off the hook—for the most part. Gosalyn knows she’s still on thin ice, and decides to save her hilarious pig in the bathroom prank for another month. 

But Darkwing still hasn’t shown up. 

A week goes by, and Gosalyn starts to wonder how he’ll know when it’s okay to visit her. Then she starts to wonder if he’ll even bother. He’s a superhero, like Gizmoduck, he’s got to be busy all the time, helping people who deserve saving. No one else cares about little orphan Gosalyn Waddlemeyer, so why should he? 

Of course, she gets a visitor that very next day. 

“Is it—” Gosalyn cries, sitting up in bed. She’s been staring at her history textbook for so long that the words have blurred together in an incomprehensible soup. 

Mrs. Cavanaugh seems to resist the urge to sigh longsufferingly, but only barely. “No, it’s not the superhero.  _ But,” _ she says pointedly when Gosalyn groans, “you should give him a chance, dear. He might be prospective parent.”

Gosalyn neglects to retort that the only prospective parent she wants now spends his free time beating up bad guys and giving the best hugs she’s ever received since Grandpa, because that’s a little pathetic, even for her. 

Still, Gosalyn does as Mrs. Cavanaugh asks because that’s what she does now. She even changes out of her pajamas before stomping downstairs. 

Mrs. Cavanaugh beats her to her office, and Gosalyn can hear her talking to her so-called visitor inside. “Gosalyn will be right down, Mr. Mallard. She’s had a bit of a bad week, so I apologize if she isn’t up for a long visit.”

An impossibly familiar voice replies, “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she starts feeling better soon.”

Gosalyn starts taking the stairs two at a time. 

“Speaking of,” Mrs. Cavanaugh is saying, when Gosalyn’s nearly at the door, “you don’t look so good yourself.”

Gosalyn hesitates as she reaches the door to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s office. She’s half certain that she’s imagining things, so she only tugs the open door open wide enough for her to peer inside the room. 

She gets a perfect view of her visitor, sitting across from Mrs. Cavanaugh’s desk. He had a cast on his left arm, and he’s looks like a dork, wearing a pink plaid shirt with a pair of sunglasses hooked over the collar. 

“Oh, this?” he responds, lifting his cast. “I got into a little accident on my way home from the dry cleaners.” 

He glances over at Gosalyn in the doorway, like he knew she was there the entire time. She forgets how to breathe until he winks at her. 

“Well, I hope your arm heals soon—” Mrs. Cavanaugh starts to say, but Gosalyn interrupts her by rushing into the room. “Oh, Gosalyn!”

Gosalyn stops herself from tackling Darkwing just in time. He’s out of costume; Mrs. Cavanaugh will definitely be suspicious if Gosalyn acts like she already knows what should be a perfect stranger. 

“This is Mr. Mallard,” Mrs. Cavanaugh tells her, but Gosalyn’s not really listening anymore. 

Darkwing stands up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles at her. No one had looked so happy to see her since her grandfather. He offers her his hand, that one that isn’t in cast. “Call me Drake,” he says. 

“Gosalyn,” she replies. She shakes his hand, and it feels like a promise. She trusts him to keep it. 

  
  
  



End file.
